Strange Dream
by Erriel
Summary: Take a girl who'd rather collect bugs than train Pokemon, a Yanma on a mission he can't remember, and a world where Pokemon is a dying fad that only exists online. Throw in masked men, stalkers, and high stakes tournaments, and you get this strange fic.
1. …NOW ACCESSING 1 of 2…

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**YOUR QUERY:** fantastical, zone 1 

2 **RECORD(S) FOUND**

…**NOW ACCESSING** 1 **of** 2…

**LAST MODIFIED: **10 **yr(s),** 136 **day(s),** 2 **hr(s) ago**

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On the outside, Deanne was just like all the other little girls. She played on the swings and ran in the rain, made crowns out of paper and had always wanted to ride a unicorn. The neighbors called her sweet while her mother laughed modestly, prompting Deanne's little brother to stuck out his tongue and proclaim Deanne was just annoying. Deanne would smile, then give him a hard jab in the ribs when the adults weren't looking. After that, it'd be back to being a princess or mage or lion tamer –whichever role best suited the moment. 

And for a while, Deanne really _was _like any other little, albeit imaginative, girl. That changed when she started seeing the monsters.

They'd come at night -always at night- creeping into her head as she snuggled below the bedcovers. There was no telling which ones would find her first, or what they'd look like. The monsters could wear a variety of sizes and shapes and a rainbow's worth of color. Some scampered in on padded feet or clattering claws, beady eyes gleaming eerily. Others swept down from the darkness above, wings of leather, feathers, and finely-veined gauze fluttering. Still more wriggled over on bellies of scales and stone, while their companions swan in through cold, black channels.

Deanne had never seen anything as fascinating as the monsters. She peeked into her neighbor's yards and scouted out the local park, even asked her apathetic mother if the monsters came to her, too. When it became clear that the monsters didn't exist in Deanne's world, she decided to remedy the situation herself by _bringing _them into it herself.

So she drew. She sketched and dabbed and chewed her markers until she'd successfully reproduced the likeness of the monsters she remembered best in her favorite notebook. Her little brother soon became interested as well. He wanted to know about the monster with a lightning bolt for a tail, or the round pink one with the enormous eyes. Deanne would bite her lip and cross her eyes. She didn't know where the monsters came from, or why they only came to her. All she knew was that she had to keep on drawing, lest she forget them.

And then the man in the mask came.

He didn't find his way into her dreams like the monsters did. He didn't even show up at her house. He walked up to Deanne in the park, while she was sketching a picture in the sand. This time, it was a lizard-like monster with flat, sharply defined wings. Its bulging, lifelike eyes seemed to bore into the girl, as if loftily granting its approval of her rendition. In her head, Deanne could even picture the monster springing up from the sand and sailing away with a buzzing hum.

"You're very good at drawing those," a man's voice came suddenly.

Deanne looked up and nearly dropped her stick in surprise. It was very strange to see an adult wearing a mask. And his was a bizarre-looking one at that: light lavender and shaped like the face of a cat, with two holes for eyes, but none for a mouth. Nervously, she tightened her grip and tried not to stare.

The man in the mask walked around the sand box, cocking his head as if to get a better angle of the sketch. He chuckled a little. The sound was distorted by his mask, making it sound more like a low grumble. "You must have spent days copying pictures."

"I didn't copy it from a picture," Deanne told him earnestly. "It came to me."

"It…came…?" It was clear that the man hadn't been expecting Deanne's answer. Suddenly, his voice took on a steely edge. "Where did it come from?"

"My head," Deanne replied uneasily. "The monsters come at night, when I'm sleeping. I try to remember them all so I can draw them, only there're too many for me to keep track of."

"386," the man in the mask whispered, shaking visibly from head to toe. "386 and counting." Taking a sharp breath, he forced his limbs to steady. "Would you like to know a secret about the monsters, little girl?" he asked.

Deanne nodded eagerly, her momentary nervousness fading. "I want to know everything about them!"

"First, you must draw more monsters," the man commanded. "Draw me as many as you can remember."

Deanne obeyed. She maneuvered the stick through the sand until it was reduced to a blunt stub. All the while, the man in the mask paced around her, scrutinizing her drawings and muttering to himself. When the sun began to disappear over the horizon, he held up a hand.

"Good," he said. "Come back tomorrow and draw the rest."

So Deanne did. She returned to the sandbox at the same time everyday for a long, long time. Each time the man in the mask would be there to circle and grunt and mumble, and each time he'd ask her to come back and finish drawing the monsters that she hadn't been able to do.

"Where do you go everyday, sis?" Deanne's little brother asked her one day. "What are you doing that's so important?"

"I'll tell you," Deanne answered, not wanting him to interfere, "when I'm done."

Finally, there came the day when Deanne felt she'd drawn about all the monsters she could. She was a little afraid of disappointing the man in the mask; he seemed like he needed something to pace around and grumble about to keep him happy. And if he didn't leave happily, then he might never tell her the secret that he had originally promised.

Reluctantly, Deanne let her curious little brother tag along as she racked her brains for what to do. Perhaps it'd just be best to tell him the truth: she couldn't draw him any more monsters, and there was nothing she could do about it.

Snow was falling when Deanne and her brother arrived at the park. The man in the mask was already there, hands bunched up under his cloak and body practically twitching with impatience or chill; it was hard to tell which.

"So _you're _sis's friend," Deanne's brother said, brazenly walking up to the man in the mask. "You look kinda cold, mister."

The man in the mask ignored him. Instead, he nodded to Deanne, urging her to start.

Feeling trapped, Deanne bent down over the snow. She shivered a little as the winter wind swept past, blowing a handful of white flakes into her face. Extending her index finger, then setting it into the blanket of snow before her, Deanne paused…

…then began to draw.

As the sketch began to take shape, the man in the mask didn't pace or mumble. This time, he seemed frozen in place. And while his uncharacteristic silence stretched longer and longer, his eyes grew wider and wider behind his mask.

"That…_that_ monster came to you in a dream, too?" he asked in a deathly quiet voice.

Deanne nodded, feeling sick to her stomach. "Y-yes," she admitted, sitting back in the snow. "But it…it told me you might be mad if I drew it for you. I…I didn't…"

"Sis, you wanna go home now?" Deanne's little brother called from where he was making a snowman at the edge of the street. "My nose is getting cold, and I think it's gonna fall off!"

Silently, the man in the mask bent forward. Deanne stiffened as he clamped one hand over her shoulder, fingers digging in so tightly that she was afraid he might rip her arm right out of its socket. She wrenched her head around to tell him it hurt…but screamed instead when she saw a silver blade flashing underneath his cloak.

"Sis! Sis!" her brother yelled. A sprinkling of ice crystals grazed Deanne's face as a tightly-packed snowball slammed into the man's shoulder. Scooping up another batch of snow, Deanne's little brother ran forward. "Let my sis go!" he shouted, face red with both anger and fear.

One hand still gripping Deanne's shoulder, the man stepped forward, dragging Deanne along with him. His spare hand shot out, catching his young attacker's wrist before he could even throw the snowball. In one motion, he twisted the boy's arm back and flung him into the icy street –right into the path of an oncoming truck.

"Do you still want to know the secret, little girl?" the man in the mask hissed, forcing Deanne to her knees. Eyes filling with panicked tears, the girl struggled to squirm away.

"Watch out!" came the inevitable shriek. There was a screech of tires, then a blur of color, as the vehicle failed to gain enough traction on the slippery surface. And, suddenly, the thud, the snap, the child's fading scream, and that flicker of silvery metal above her throat were all gone. There was nothing left except for a blinding, blinding red.

The snow kept on drifting down, sighing as it gently covered everything below.

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_**Notes: **386 is the number I found on Serebii, and that only takes into account up to Ruby/Sapphire. The number keeps on growing..._


	2. …NOW ACCESSING 2 of 2…

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…**NOW ACCESSING** 2 **of** 2… 

**LAST MODIFIED: **0 **yr(s),** 2 **day(s),** 1 **hr(s) ago**

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With a contented twitter, a young robin hopped atop a rusty weathervane. Head bobbing, it gazed over the quiet suburbs. From its perch on the roof, the bird could just glimpse the rising sun over the top of a particularly lofty oak tree. The day's first sunrays were brushing the sky with all manner of rosy hues and lavender light and, for now at least, the sidewalks were empty, any humans still tucked away in their warm beds. 

Fluffing its feathers against a sudden, sprightly breeze, the robin started to sing again.

"Incoming!"

With a startled squawk, the bird shot into the air. There was a loud clatter as a bug-like creature slammed into the weathervane, snapping it right off the roof. Gasping, the oversized insect, a panicked Yanma cradling a battered notebook in his six tangled legs, twisted away. As the mangled metal clanged into a driveway, the Yanma darted back up. Wings working furiously, he chanced a glance towards his pursuer, a rapidly gaining Salamence.

"Maybe we can talk about this!" he yelled back, drawing the notebook closer to his body. "I know this really nice place down by the…ack! Hey, hey, hey! Trying to have a conversation here! Could you knock off the teeth chomping thing already!"

With a deafening roar, the Salamence lunged through the air. His teeth gnashed together inches from the Yanma's flailing tail.

"Guess not," the Yanma gulped. "Man, this job doesn't get any easier!"

Putting on a burst of speed, the Yanma ducked through a line of trees looming before a large bridge. He flitted back and forth beneath the foliage, clear wings barely visible underneath the vibrant green leaves. Halfway through, however, he swerved about and zipped back the way he'd come. As he emerged from the trees in roughly the same place he'd started, the Salamence was nowhere in sight.

"Ha, lost him," the Yanma puffed.

Right on cue, something struck him from behind with all the force of an armored truck. Wheezing as navy scales accentuated by blurs of orange filled his line of vision, the Yanma found himself plunging downward. He thudded into someone's lawn seconds later, wings flopping limply to the side.

With a triumphant growl, the Salamence spiraled over his target in increasingly lower circles. As he prepared to move in for the final strike, there was a sudden, furious flurry of clear wings below, followed by the cacophonous shattering of all glass windows within a twenty foot radius. With a screech of pain, Salamence staggered back, temporarily disoriented by the Supersonic attack.

"And now for _-gasp!-_ the clean _-gasp!-_ getaway!" Still panting heavily, the Yanma fought his way into the air. As he rose rapidly above the grove of trees, he spotted the bridge he'd seen before. "There's no way he'd miss that," the insect-like Pokémon muttered to himself. "Still…"

With a resigned sigh, the Yanma soared forward, then ducked quickly beneath the bridge to hide. He winced as he heard a thundering roar, followed by a flap of wings overhead. As soon as both sounds faded away, he let himself relax. "Safe, I'm safe," he panted, slowing the frenzied beating of his wings.

"Don't tell me you fell for that twice," came a disgusted voice from above.

The Yanma didn't even have time to scream as the Salamence's flint-hard gaze met his own boggling eyes. "It speaks!" the insect-like Pokémon marveled. "Hey hey, hang on a sec! Why didn't you say something instead of going with the whole mindless brute routine and chasing me all over town!"

"I have only one thing to say," the Salamence said curtly. "My orders are to take that notebook. This will be easier for both of us if you cooperate now."

"Well, I'm sorry, buddy, I really am. But we both know that I can't do that. The book's not yours to take."

The Salamence's eyes turned, if possible, even more frigid. "Have it your way," he said coldly.

"Back off, you big blue dummy!" the Yanma yelled, dodging the Salamence's charge and zipping out from under the bridge. "Drat, no, no, no, no, no!"

Surging up, then landing in the middle of the bridge, the navy dragon snapped at the Yanma's legs. As the startled smaller Pokémon loosened its grip, the Salamence grabbed the binding of the notebook in his teeth. The Yanma's large eyes bulged as the book fell open, pages fluttering. Fumbling momentarily, then hastily clamping down on the tattered cover with his mandibles, the insect-like Pokémon struggled backwards, while the Salamence braced himself against the ground. There was a loud, inevitable rip.

The Salamence tumbled backwards, while the Yanma nearly crashed into the bridge's steel railing. "Yeesh," the Yanma groaned, noticing that all he had was one cover and a crinkled half-page. Only several feet away, the Salamence held the book's battered remainder in his powerful jaws.

Grasping the pieces he'd managed to save between his many legs, the Yanma rose into a high hover. "I said, that's not yours to take!" he shouted down. "Sheesh, making life harder for me, are ya?" Tucking his clear wings, he fell into a dive.

The Salamence effortlessly avoided the attack. Eyes blazing, he pounced himself, nearly swiping the Yanma's eyes with his claws. The smaller, more agile Pokémon zipped back and forth across the bridge, barely eluding his opponent each time. Now panting heavily, the Yanma feinted towards the bridge railing, then doubled swiftly back.

With his bulkier body, the Salamence was not as quick. He rammed headfirst into the steel rail. Groaning, he crashed back onto the concrete. As he hit, the notebook was thrown violently from his mouth.

"Shoot!" the Yanma rasped as the mangled book flew between the bars of the railing. Zooming forward, he flew to the other side of the bridge, just in time to see the notebook bounce off a rock protruding from the side of the bank. "Ooh, lucky!" he cried in relief.

The so-called "lucky" book skittered across a bed of pebbles and dirt…before falling through the grating of a nearby storm drain.

"Oh…mama…" Before the Yanma had the chance to fully bemoan the irony of his situation, something from above gave a louder groan than he could have ever mustered himself.

Knocked back by the impact of the Salamence's body, the steel guard rail was beginning to give way. The Yanma barely had a change to register the falling gate of metal before it nailed him in the head. As the rail broke completely away from the bridge, raining debris as it did, it plummeted into the river with a loud clang. The Pokémon's limp body splashed in several feet ahead. As the current carried the Yanma downstream, water lapped steadily at his motionless limbs.

Still clutched to the bug-like Pokémon's abdomen was a crumpled half-sheet of paper, along with one of the notebook's worn covers –all that remained of the lost book.

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…**PROCESS COMPLETE…**

**NO MORE INFO AVAILABLE**

Letting out a long-suppressed sigh, the figure sitting in front of the console bent forward, then removed its helmet and visor. "But where are you now?" the figure whispered, head still bowed. "And what will it take to find you?"

The blinking lights on either side of the visor, the only clearly visible things in the pitch-black room, pulsed steadily.

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_**Notes: **Hehe...the summary was wrong before. I actually got Yanma and Vibrava mixed up when I wrote this, but it's fixed now (is sheepish). __Many thanks to reviewers - you're all so sweet! (hands out sugar cookies shaped like Charmander)_


	3. take one troublesome tomboy

Chapter 1

**Crash Course**

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If Alice "Cricket" Lewis could've picked one word to describe herself, "cowardly" wouldn't have even been an option. Taking a solitary bike ride downtown late at night –sounds like fun! Locking yourself in a dark closet chockfull of spiders and silverfish –hey, no problem! Eating whatever expired mystery meat was left in the fridge –okay, she'd opt for instant ramen, but that was beside the point! Cricket prided herself on being tough, being daring, being able to punch any scary challenges directly in the face and not even flinch… 

Somehow, hiding in a dressing stall didn't really fit the picture.

"You ready yet?" A sharp knock sounded on the other side of the door, making Cricket's shoulders slump even more than before.

"Mom!" she groaned, hunching over so low that she felt like a puddle on the department store's fuzzy carpet. "Do I really have to do this?"

The reply from the other side was not pleased. "Well, you can stay in there if you really want to."

"Mom, it's _hot_ _pink_. It hurts just looking at this thing!"

"And you'll get to stare at it some more for every extra moment you stay in there, hmm?"

Sighing in defeat, the disgruntled thirteen year-old girl dragged herself onto her feet. Out of the corner of her eye, she could just glimpse her reflection in the surrounding stall mirrors. The frilly floral print dress she'd been forced to try clashed incongruously with the rest of her appearance, making her nose wrinkle disgustedly at the sight.

Once again, Cricket winced at just how out-of-place the outfit looked against the scruffy, sandy hair that fell just below her ears (when it wasn't sticking up in odd tufts or streaked an irregularly dark brown around her face). Or, for that matter, her face and bare arms, which were tanned several shades darker than the rest of her body and liberally covered with bruises and Band-Aids. As she started forward, a pair of untied shoelaces, belonging to two equally old and grubby sneakers, trailed out from underneath the lacy hem.

Feeling utterly ridiculous, Cricket eased open the door and inched surreptitiously around it. "Okay, I'm out," she grumbled, crossing her arms and praying no one she knew would happen to pass by. The dress's high, stiff collar was already making her itch.

Mrs. Lewis, a middle-aged woman who shared Cricket's straw-colored, boyishly-short hair, shot her daughter a triumphant smile. "Hey, not half bad," she said. "It fits, _and_ it's on sale. It's perfect for you!"

"Not in this lifetime," Cricket muttered darkly. "Can we go now? I have to finish my homework for tomorrow."

"I somehow doubt you're rushing back to do homework, dear. Besides, we still have to buy new shoes." Grinning as the look in Cricket's eyes turned murderous, Mrs. Lewis broke into laughter. "This is why I love shopping with my only daughter!"

Two dresses and five pairs of shoes later, the mother and daughter pair were finally able to return home. Once back, Cricket barged through the door of her house, a heavy shopping bag banging against her bony knees. Taking the stairs two at a time, she dashed up to her room and slammed the door.

One glance was all you needed to realize how Cricket had gotten her strange nickname. Instead of coating her walls with posters of music stars or anime characters, Cricket had surrounded herself with insects.

Construction-paper cutouts of Goliath beetles and stick insects had been thumb-tacked above the bed, while photographs of luna moths, ant lions, and orb spiders torn from National Geographic were pinned around the closet's perimeter. On the other end of the room, the sole desk was buried by a long-abandoned ant farm, a small terrarium, several empty jars, a pile of broken magnifying glasses, and other assorted towers of junk. Beside it, a bookshelf painted with ladybugs was nearly bursting with old photo-magazines and haphazardly arranged field guides.

Jumping onto her bed, Cricket nearly missed colliding with her pride and joy: a papier-mâché dragonfly suspended from the ceiling. Landing with a sharp jolt, she scrambled over to her closet and threw open the doors.

"I'm never seeing you again!" Cricket proclaimed, shoving the bag into the very back. Leaning back over the other end of her bed, she swiped a black T-shirt and an old pair of shorts off the floor. Seconds later, she was down the stairs in her usual clothes.

"Where are you going?" Cricket's mother called.

"The creek!" Cricket yelled as she headed for the door.

Mrs. Lewis sighed at this. "You know I don't like you going to the creek," she started wearily. "It's dangerous to play down there, and I don't want you…not listening to me anyway," she finished as the slam of the door shook the house on its foundation. Shaking her head, Mrs. Lewis sighed again. "What did I ever do to deserve that crazy girl?"

From the garage, Cricket quickly wheeled her bike into the driveway. Swinging a leg over the bicycle seat, she sped down a stretch of concrete before veering sharply to the right. From there, the bike ran smoothly down the rest of the sidewalk, jolted over a curb, and swung wildly across the street. With another flying bump, Cricket crashed back onto the sidewalk.

It was a balmy autumn afternoon, and she was enjoying every minute of it. As her bike ripped through a bed of dead leaves, Cricket closed her eyes for several seconds. Wind whisked through her messy hair as she started down a steep incline. As she picked up more and more speed, the bike careened around the corner at a breakneck speed.

"Whoa!"

Green eyes widening, Cricket swerved immediately into somebody's lawn. As the bike squealed to a stop, tossing turf in all directions, she jerked her head over her shoulder to make sure she hadn't been dreaming.

Standing in the middle of the sidewalk was a tall person whose long, dark cloak looked incredibly out of place in the dull suburban neighborhood. But as heavy as the cloak's thick fabric looked at first glance, it was rippling even in the light fall breeze. Slowly, the person turned, inclining his head in Cricket's direction. The girl blanched to see that he had no face.

Or, at second glance, a badly deformed one.

Where the man's eyes should have been were two eerily black holes. There was no mouth below them, only a shallow indention. A pair of pointed peaks, positioned on either side of his head, could have passed for almost comical cat ears, while the entire skin of the face was tinted a glassy, delicate lilac.

_It's a mask, _Cricket realized suddenly, a paralyzing chill dancing up her spine. _And it's way too early for Halloween. _

"Uh, sorry 'bout that," she said out loud, violently forcing visions of masked robbers and serial killers from her overactive mind.

The mask's pitch-dark gaze leveled at the girl. Alhough it unnerved her, Cricket refused to be the first one to break their mutual stare. As her eyes started to water, the man's head turned slightly to the left. Unable to see his real eyes, however, Cricket had the uncanny impression that he was still gazing at her.

"You should keep your eyes open," the man said in a low, but surprisingly mellifluous voice. "Which is good advice in any situation, wouldn't you say? You were rather lucky this time."

In stark contrast to the soothing inflections of his voice, the mask was as rigid and expressionless as ever. Growing increasingly uneasy, Cricket nodded.

"But I'll have my own bit of luck," the man went on, "if _you_ happen to know how I can reach the Joseph Wendall Junior High School from here."

_What does this creepy guy want with _my_ school?_ An uncharacteristic edginess made Cricket's tongue slow and her voice stutter as she struggled to give the directions.

"So I _was_ lucky," the masked man chuckled as Cricket finally finished. "Take care now, little girl."

Hoping that she wasn't unleashing some crazed disguised murderer on the school staff, Cricket watched him walk down the sidewalk in the direction she'd originally come from. Despite the relatively lethargic winds, his black cloak billowed out behind his retreating figure, hiding the rest of his body from view.

"That was really, really strange," she mumbled, which, at best, was an understatement in the worst sense. In a sobering flash, she remembered the sudden fear, the overwhelming, heart-pounding anxiety, the veritable spiral of negative emotions…all as the results of meeting some crazy guy in a cat costume?

Her reaction seemed just as unreal as the man himself, and now that he was gone, Cricket found herself wondering what exactly about him she'd found so scary.

"Okay, moving on," she told herself, swinging back onto her bike. "Man, I hope _he's_ not my sub tomorrow."

Leaving a line of deep tread marks behind as she streaked off the lawn, Cricket bumped back on the sidewalk at full speed. For one reason or another, though, she refrained from shutting her eyes during the rest of the trip.

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_**Notes: **Yep, the last two parts were just separate halves of the prologue - sorry for any confusion! I'm afraid that the second half provides the main tone and setting for this story; I was hoping that the first half could add some more sinister understones to the rest of the plot. What exactly was the deal with the masked man and the little girl is going to be revealed bit by bit...I hope I can get that far...hm. Anyway, thanks to all readers! Have many, many more cookies!_


	4. an equally clueless Yanma

Chapter 2

**Monster Under the Bed**

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The creek had changed quite a bit from how it'd looked the last time Cricket had come. Tall, shady trees had lined the banks for as long as she could remember, blocking most of the sky with their broad leaves. But now that fall had arrived in full swing, even the drabbest trees sported foliage shot through with streaks of vivid orange and dark purple. Their colorful neighbors boasted crowns of delicate pale gold or deep, lustrous ruby. 

As for the creek itself, it had gorged itself on the week's several rainstorms, swelling from its normally modest trickle into a boisterous brown rush. As bright leaves fluttered down from overhanging branches, the water snatched them eagerly away. From above, Cricket could see a veritable parade of colors floating down the creek's length, forming lively, ever-changing patterns as the water swirled about.

Leaving her bike leaning against a tree trunk, Cricket recklessly made her way down the rather steep embankment. Dirt smudged her arms as she skid unceremoniously to the bottom.

The water roared as it rushed past. Cricket's eyes darted up from the ground, briefly taking in the fallen leaves, the moving water, and the…_huge dead body pushed up against some rocks?_

"What the…?" Cricket cried she scrambled closer towards the water. Bracing her knees against the ground, she stretched forward and, gritting her teeth, lugged the dead animal to shore. Panting, she awkwardly dropped the body in the dirt. As the water rolled off its surface, forming small puddles by her feet, the girl's eyes widened in shock.

It looked like some sort of bizarre bug, one that had a streamlined, crimson-colored body, complete with six spindly black legs and a set of rounded, clear wings. One stubby antenna stuck out from the creature's round head; the other was bent nearly in half. The eyes positioned on either side of its greenish head were closed…strange for an insect that should've had no eyelids.

"Never seen a dragonfly like that," Cricket said in awe. "It's a new species, definitely! Man, I'm gonna be famous for this!" Smiling in uncontrollable glee, she glanced from the huge wet insect, to her bike, and back.

Could she ride home, grab a camera, dash back, and expect the body to be where she'd left it? Better to stash it somewhere safe, Cricket decided in a snap, away from nosy kids and wild animals.

Putting one hand under the bug's head, and another halfway between its tail and back, Cricket lifted it off the ground. Taking one slow step at a time, she walked back the way she'd come.

Overhanging moss, along with a handful of snagged dead leaves, covered the side of the small hill. Cricket parted the natural curtain with a shove of her leg, revealing a hole just large enough for a child to squeeze through. Getting onto her knees and cradling the body carefully beneath her chin, Cricket crawled down a short, gravel-lined tunnel. When the palm of her free hand felt scratchy carpet directly beneath it, she reached for the flashlight against the wall and switched it on.

She was crouching in the middle of a small room. A thin carpet covered most of the dirt floor, while the walls themselves were a mixture of rock and tightly-packed soil. That was the disadvantage about staying in a hole in the ground. Rainwater had pooled down in several muddy puddles, which Cricket quickly moved away from.

Fortunately, there was ample room to maneuver. The room was rather large, but there wasn't much in it. A couple of faded posters, including an old map, had been tacked on the sides of the chamber. A wooden desk, sporting an old, broken computer and rack full of scratched CDs, completed the ragtag ensemble.

Cricket had found the "secret room," as she'd nicknamed it, a couple years ago. Even then, it'd been pretty clear that she'd been far from the first kid who'd played there. Many of the posters had been ripped up, the cheap carpet was practically coated with dried mud, and the various CDs had been scattered carelessly across the floor. Cricket had kept on coming back, first to fix things up, then just to hang around. True, there wasn't much to do there, but there was a certain thrill in having a little place nobody else knew about all to oneself.

It _was _hers, for now, at least. She'd never been able to figure out who the person who'd created the room was, but they apparently weren't coming back. Maybe whoever it was had grown up and couldn't fit through the entrance anymore. That was a bit too whimsical for a proper explanation, but an interesting thought all the same.

"Be a good little bug and stay there," Cricket joked, stepping back from the dragonfly's body as she lowered it to the carpet. "Hehehe, this is too cool!"

As she turned off the flashlight and prepared to go back outside, there was a coughing noise in the darkness. "Ouch!" wheezed a raspy male voice. "Did anybody…ack…get the plates…ow...on that truck? Yeesh, what happened to my antenna?"

"Who's there!" Cricket yelled, fumbling for the flashlight switch, then swinging the light around in a circle.

"…glue's not gonna fix that baby…maybe duct tape…"

_No way._

"Tory!" Cricket shouted. "I know it's you! Quit following me around!"

"Tory? I'm not Tory…am I? Wait a sec…what's my name again?"

As Cricket brandished the light directly in front of her, a pair of beady black eyes set in a round green face were illuminated. Seconds later, they squeezed tightly shut.

"ACK, I've gone blind!" cried the same voice as before. "First they break my prettiest antenna, and now they've poked out my eyes! Somebody help! Help!"

Cricket nearly dropped her flashlight as something wet crashed into her knees, spraying her bare legs with water droplets. As she tried to move back, whatever it was collided into her again. There was a yelp, then a sickening lurch, and Cricket found herself with her face in the dirt and something squirming under her. A gauzy surface whipped repeatedly against her cheek, accompanied by frantic shouts of "It's got me! It's got me!"

"What the heck is going on!" Cricket yelled, rolling to the side and pointing the flashlight at the spot she'd just left.

The crimson dragonfly was staring right back at her, body reared and beady black eyes shining with fear. Slowly, the flailing of his wings died down, as did the amount of terror on his face.

"Oh, you're just a kid!" the dragonfly remarked, settling shakily back onto all of his six legs. "Phew! Had me worried there for a sec!" He eyed the speechless Cricket rather sheepishly, before asking, "Um, you wouldn't have anything to fix this up, by any chance?" He pointed one black foot at his dangling antenna.

Cricket felt like she was going to faint.

"Hey, hey, it's not as bad as it looks!" the dragonfly assured the wide-eyed girl. "What's with you? You look like you just saw the monster under the bed!"

"Who…are…you?" Cricket managed to croak out at last. "And where in the world did you come from?"

As if in musing, the dragonfly's eyes rolled back in his head. Several moments of silence passed as the oversized insect brought a foot to his chin and pursed his mouth together. "Good questions," he said at last. "And I have about as much of a clue as you do."

Cricket Lewis had never considered herself a coward. And, truly, a lesser thirteen year-old would have keeled over right there and then. Cricket herself opted for another course of action.

She ran.


	5. the boy in the back corner

Chapter 3

**The Other One**

* * *

As the last bell of the day rang, classroom doors all over Joseph Wendall Junior High flung open as one. Chatting, shouting, or laughing, students all across the school flooded into the halls. Doors banged roughly against the walls and a stampede of footsteps pounded against the tiled floors as the building was quickly emptied.

One person, however, was actually heading away from the exit. Edging towards the wall to let the surging flow of students pass, a man in a black hooded cloak eased his way down the front hall. Amid the commotion, his strange appearance went virtually unnoticed; any students who happened to glimpse the odd stranger could only blink and walk on as he disappeared into the throes of the teeming crowd.

Holding the hood over his face, the man stopped directly in front of the main office. The receptionist, engaged in a telephone call, didn't even glance up as the man opened the doors and walked silently past. He passed the front desk and moved to the door at the very end of the hall. It was bare save for a small window, covered on the other side by closed blinds. A metal placard hanging on the wall nearby read "Sandrine H. Seraph: Principal" in finely engraved letters.

Without bothering to knock, the man placed one gloved hand on the doorknob. It turned easily. As the door creaked opened, the sole occupant of the room, a tall, pale woman in a neatly-pressed suit, raised her head. "It's about time," she said edgily, straightening the papers on her desk with one long-fingered hand. With the other, she motioned to the plush chair in front of the desk.

The man seated himself, pulling back his hood as he did. "You seem agitated, Sandrine," he said, voice half-muffled by a ceramic cat mask.

The woman's light blue eyes narrowed behind her steel-rimmed glasses. She straightened stiffly, letting her long, pale hair tumble off her shoulders. "I have every reason to be worried," Sandrine answered curtly. "We've completely lost track of the Yanma. What's worse, he's still hanging onto whatever's left of the notebook."

"There are ways we can locate him," the man in the mask countered, sounding amused. "He'll have found someone by now, a person he can use for the time being."

"One of those children."

"That's the easiest way." Although it was impossible to see the man's true face, Sandrine had an acute impression that he was frowning underneath his heavy mask.

"Have you already found someone likely?" she asked tensely.

Snapping back into his usually suave self, the man gave a low chuckle. "I just remembered something. A little girl almost ran me over with her bike yesterday."

"And you think _she_ might be the one?"

"That girl?" The man's laugh grew heartier. "Asking her for help would be no different from sealing a death wish."

Sandrine sighed, making a vain attempt not to glare at her companion. Her next words were brief, sharp, and increasingly irritated. "Then who _is _it?"

* * *

"Alright, class, that's a wrap! Have a good weekend!"

As the students of Cervantes Middle School's Class 6-B filed quietly out the door, the teacher waved at a small, slender boy in the back of the room. "Zane, I'd like to see you up here for a second."

Wordlessly raising his head, the boy hiked his backpack over one shoulder. As he walked to the front of the room, dark red hair clipped the shoulders of his school uniform. "Yes?" he said in a quiet, seemingly unperturbed, voice.

"Ah, Zane, I'll make this quick." Folding her hands underneath her chin, the teacher managed a small smile. "I've been hearing some rumors lately. It sounds like we have a couple not-so-nice kids in this school."

Zane's grayish eyes blinked, but he said nothing.

"One of your classmates came up to me the other day. They seemed a bit worried about what was going on."

Again came that blank-faced blink, followed by dead silence.

The teacher sighed despite her best intentions. "I hate being so blunt, but are you having problems with bullies again, Zane?"

The boy didn't blink this time. Instead, he planted both hands on the desk and lowered his face to the teacher's level. "Mrs. Jones," he said in a pointedly calm voice, "have I been falling behind in my schoolwork?"

"No," the teacher said, surprised at the seemingly random inquiry. "You're at the top of the class."

"Then I don't see what the problem is," Zane answered coolly, the politeness in his tone not wavering a bit. "But thank you for your concern."

"Honestly, Zane!" Mrs. Jones snapped as the boy started walking to the door. "You're never going to get any help if you keep acting like this! Your friend was concerned enough to talk to _me_. Don't you at least care about that?"

Zane twisted his head over his shoulder, the flecks of ice in his eyes hardening. His lips twitched into a small, impassive smile. "I'm sorry for the trouble," he said quietly. "Please understand; I'd have every reason to take responsibility for a friend. But not for the guilty conscience of a bystander."

Without another word, he turned back and closed the length of the classroom in several quick strides. In another couple of seconds, he had disappeared down the now empty hall.

"Boys always have to play it tough, do they?" Mrs. Jones groaned, rubbing at her now throbbing temples. "And that little punk's the worst of all."

* * *

Backpack still slung over only one shoulder, Zane rounded the corner and stepped into the front hall. On his left, glass windows stretched from the ceiling to the polished tile floor. Afternoon sunlight spilled in from an outdoor courtyard, drenching the hallway in an almost golden glow.

As always, they were there.

"Hey, _Zaniel_! Didya have fun talkin' to the teach?" crooned the leader of a small circle of boys. Snickers and sneers radiated through the group, rapidly building in force.

Zane said nothing. As he continued walking down the hall, sharp shoves came from either side. Struggling to show no response, Zane stepped back into his original path each time, only to be pushed over again.

"What's the matter?" one of the other boys mocked as he jabbed Zane particularly roughly. "Too much of a _girl _to fight back?"

Taunts of "he even looks like one!" and "look, he's too scared to fight!" rose in volume. They turned into laughter as the final shove slammed Zane straight into the window. His head hit the glass with a sharp crack. Feeling nauseous, Zane lurched and bent nearly in half before he was able to straighten. As he was hunched over, someone yanked his backpack off his shoulder.

"Hey, the loser still has that stupid keychain!" The laughter swelled again as the backpack was tossed from hand to hand. "What did he call it…Pokey-man or something?"

Focusing intently on clearing the pain from his head, Zane closed his eyes and waited for it to end. Derogatory words and jeering phrases spun around him, mixing and melding until they had become one, deafening shout.

"Didn't that dumb fad go out ages ago?"

"I think my grandpa still likes it."

"Your _grandpa_!"

"Hey!" someone yelled from up the hall. Lifting his head, Zane could see that the receptionist had finally poked her head out the door of the main office. "Stay away from the windows! If you kids want to roughhouse, go outside!"

Muttering among themselves, the other boys trooped down the hall. As they walked away, they unzipped Zane's backpack, emptied its contents across the floor, then shoved the bag into a nearby trash can. Zane himself watched soundlessly as his open folders clattered to the ground, sending up a veritable storm of papers. As the front doors finally swung shut, he exhaled softly, then went to retrieve his things.

Fifteen more minutes, and Zane had left the school completely behind. Now, a brisk wind shot across the sidewalk, tugging at his red hair like a mischievous child, before dashing recklessly on. Shoving his hands into his pockets, which were hidden under the untucked ends of his school jacket, Zane eyed the darkening sky warily. It looked like a storm was on its way again, and he was still several blocks away from home.

As he neared the bridge, he saw that it'd been marked off with bright yellow hazard tape. The cement had been badly dented, and the railing on one side had been knocked right off its foundations, leaving cracks sprouting all across the bridge's surface.

_Ah, of course._ Zane's memory was far from stellar, and he'd forgotten seeing the bridge closed off that very morning. Now he'd have to take a detour before he could go home.

Walking back the way he'd come, Zane noticed the grassy incline that sloped down, then straightened, on either end of the bridge. On both sides, the border of the field touched the edge of the water. Zane vaguely remembered wandering through the grass and crossing another bridge farther down the river. Making up his mind, he quickly started down his side of the hill.

In his rush, he almost tripped over a small boy huddled in the grass. "Sorry," Zane said as he sidestepped and regained his balance. "Are you...alright?"

The kid sniffled. Wiping his face with one hand, which left a streak of tears and mud across his cheek, he shook his head. "Dropped my b-ball in the water!" he blurted out.

"Excuse me?"

"My ball!" the boy yelled, shoving a pudgy finger at the river several yards away. "It's over there, in the r-river!"

Squinting, Zane could make out a blur of black and grey –a dirty soccer ball– bobbing close to shore. It wasn't moving, meaning there was a good chance that it'd been caught against something.

"Hang on," Zane told the little boy. Striding over to the water's edge, he saw that his first guess had been right. The ball had been stopped by a small outcropping of rocks, and was bumping against a storm drain as the current slapped it forward.

Setting his backpack in the grass, Zane lowered himself onto all fours. Twining his fingers through the grate, he moved onto the storm drain's surface. The river below responded by splattering a fine spray of water droplets against Zane's clothes. Ignoring the water, Zane shifted his grasp on the grating to one hand, then leaned back and reached out the other for the toy.

The soccer ball drifted across the surface of the water as his fingertips just brushed it. Stretching out as far as he could, Zane nudged the ball closer. As soon as it was next to the storm drain, he scooped it up and flung it over his head. In the distance, he could hear the little kid shouting happily.

Zane shifted his grip on the grating as he prepared to go back up. As he moved his fingers, however, something sharp scrapped against them. Looking down, he saw a thin piece of curled wire poking out from the drain. It seemed to have snagged onto something inside, something that had kept it from falling into the water.

As Zane peered into the darkness, he realized that the wire was attached to something else lower down. Puzzled, he pinched the metal between his fingers and lifted the object out. The metal had been the binding of an old, black, and rather soggy notebook. Still rather bewildered, Zane tossed the book to shore, then climbed up after it.

Once safely back on land, he examined the notebook more carefully. It was missing a back cover and seemed to be falling apart. Curiosity piqued, Zane parted several of the wet pages. The pencil and ink had run or bled through, but he could still recognize most of the book's contents.

It was a sketchbook, one chockfull of meticulously-drawn subjects. Zane's eyes widened as he glanced from a lizard-like creature with a flame on the tip of its tail, to a sleek black bird with a white stomach that was shown on the adjacent side.

"Whazzat?"

Startled, Zane slammed the sketchbook shut. But the kid wasn't pointing at the book. Instead, he had his hand wrapped around a keychain dangling from Zane's bookbag. Twisting around, Zane saw the plastic figurine in question, a tiny golden dragon that stood on its hind legs and had azure, bat-like wings.

"It's a Dragonite," Zane said, quickly getting to his feet.

"Drag-a-what?"

"Dragonite," Zane repeated more slowly. "It's a type of Pokémon."

The kid's perplexed expression receded just a little. "Pokey-man!" the little boy laughed loudly, scrunching up his face in a lopsided grin. "That's such a funny name! Pokey-man!"

Zane tried for a smile. He really did. Somehow, though, it just wouldn't come.


	6. and soak in hot water for one hour

Chapter 4

**KISMET**

* * *

"Mommy! How're ya doing?" Cricket gushed as she wheeled her bike back into the driveway. "Lemme help you with that!"

Her mother raised an eyebrow as her daughter rushed forward and yanked the rake out of her hands. Said eyebrow nearly shot straight off her forehead as Cricket began raking like mad, sending dead leaves flying all over the lawn. "Someone's being awfully nice," Mrs. Lewis noted at last, jerking the rake out of Cricket's grasp. "Alright, what do you want?"

"Nothing!" Cricket said, smiling so broadly that her eyes were reduced to mere slits. As her mother sighed and continued raking, Cricket jerked her head over one shoulder. "All clear!" she hissed quickly.

On cue, a leaf-covered windbreaker appeared from behind the bushes and scuttled towards the garage. Unfortunately, the colorful opaque fabric was apparently too difficult to see through. Cricket groaned as the windbreaker scrambled too far to the right, nearly crashing into the side of the house. As the jacket turned left, she crossed her fingers, mentally urging it to scuttle off faster.

"Cricket?"

"YES! Hi! Mom!" Gulping, Cricket turned back to see her mother giving her a suspicious look.

"You're acting very weird today, young lady," Mrs. Lewis remarked, lowering her gaze as she stooped to grab a box of garbage bags.

Having glanced over her shoulder to make sure that the windbreaker had stopped moving, Cricket hastily snapped back around. "I'm, uh, always weird, Mom. Isn't that what you always say?"

"True, but this time you're going further than usual." Sighing, Mrs. Lewis reached for a garbage bag. "By the way," she added as she shook the bag open. "You left your jacket in the middle of the driveway."

"Oh." Laughing nervously, Cricket scrambled towards the windbreaker. She scooped it up in her arms, grunted under its apparent weight, and staggered into the garage. Mrs. Lewis merely rolled her eyes and went back to raking.

Once inside, Cricket set the windbreaker bundle onto the kitchen floor. There was a faint gasp, and a bright green head shoved its way into the open air. "It's _hot _under there!" the dragonfly wheezed, eyes rolling into the back of his head. "I almost suffocated!"

"Shh!" Cricket hissed, eyes darting around in all directions. "My brother Tory might be around, and if he sees you, he'll definitely tell Mom. And then you'll be kicked out for sure!"

Surreptitiously, the two of them crossed over to the foot of the stairs. Cricket picked the jacket-covered insect back up, then struggled, one step at a time, to the second floor. Once she reached her room, she dropped her burden onto the floor and closed the door. "Okay," she whispered, slumping down with her back to the wall. "It's safe."

With a long sigh, the dragonfly shook off the windbreaker and stretched out his wings. "You're _way_ too paranoid," he informed Cricket testily. "And not very good at being sneaky, either."

"You think you smashed yourself in the head and fell into the creek by accident?" Cricket challenged. Before the dragonfly could let that vague, pensive look creep onto his face again, Cricket barreled on. "Look, there's been some weird people wandering around town lately," she said, a mental image of man in the cat mask giving her a small, convulsive shiver. "Add that to the fact that my parents hate my bugs, and things aren't exactly in your favor."

"I'm not a bug," the oversized dragonfly pouted. "I don't think so, anyway."

Hopping onto her bed, Cricket kicked off her sneakers. Arms folded under her chin, she gazed down at the enormous insect with a mixture of fascination and unease swirling in the pit of her stomach. Even now, his presence seemed like a figment of some all-too-strange dream. A talking dragonfly more than half her size...the more rational half of Cricket's brain kept on insisting that she was hallucinating. As weird as this was, though, Cricket found herself growing more and more curious.

"I'm no doctor," Cricket said out loud, "but that antenna looks pretty bad. And your head's not much better," she added, gesturing to the large bruise that was already beginning to darken his skin.

Gingerly, the dragonfly touched one foot to his head. "Owie!" he cried, quickly retracting the limb. "At least I feel better than I did yesterday."

"Should I get some Band-Aids or something?"

"You wanna help me?" the dragonfly snickered. As he threw his head back to laugh, his face contorted in pain once more. "Forget it," he squeaked out. "Just show me to the bathroom, and I'll fix myself up."

The casual way in which he'd dismissed Cricket's sincere offer chafed. "Would it kill you to be a little nicer?" Cricket snapped, glaring daggers. "I didn't have to come back, you know! You almost scared me to death yesterday!"

The dragonfly rolled his eyes at this accusing statement. "Aren't you brave?" he retorted. His sarcasm shifted instantly to sorrow as he widened his eyes to the size of saucers and assumed a long suffering air. "You left me cold and alone in that room the _entire_ night."

"You wanna go back?!" Offended more than ever, Cricket tossed a particularly smelly old T-shirt over the dragonfly's head.

"Mmph!" he yelped, voice muffled by the fabric. "What was that for?!"

"Your disguise!" Cricket yelled back as she swung herself off the bed. "I'll guard the door, but we should still play it safe."

As the angry girl stalked into the hallway, the dragonfly took the opportunity to rummage in the pockets of the discarded windbreaker. Gently, he tugged out a crumpled wad of paper, along with a folded piece of black cardboard. Unbeknownst to Cricket, he'd found both snuggled under his legs when he'd first regained consciousness.

Knowing the rash-natured human girl, she'd probably do something stupid like snatch them away and rip the paper up even more. Seeing as they were the only clues the dragonfly was likely to get about his identity, he wanted to keep them intact until he figured out exactly what they were.

"Hey, you coming or what?" Cricket's voice came from outside the door.

Quickly, the large insect shoved both objects into the dusty pile of junk already under the bed. "Is that any way to treat a guest!" he yelled as he burrowed underneath the T-shirt and scuttled out the door.

When the dragonfly emerged from the bathroom a good hour later, his broken antenna was set in a make-shift splint (which looked suspiciously to consist of toilet paper, an old toothbrush, and several Band-Aids), most of the dirt had been washed from his body, and a glowing smile was illuminating his round face. Cricket, who'd been muttering impatiently ever since the first ten minutes, was not pleased.

"_Kismet_," he said, grabbing his T-shirt disguise in his mouth and flinging it at Cricket. "It's got a real _ring_ to it, don't ya think?"

The surprised human girl barely caught it. Holding the shirt at arm's length, she saw that the word "k i s m e t" had been emblazoned on the front in wispy, lowercase letters. A white starburst, framed by a navy blue background, accentuated the logo.

"It took a lot of thinking and soaking the tub, but I've decided I like it," the dragonfly declared with a rather self-satisfied air. "So it's my name, until I figure out what my real name is. Unless it really is my real name, in which case..."

He broke off as he noticed Cricket's face turning an interesting shade of purple. Wisely, he picked up the T-shirt she'd chucked at the floor and stuffed it over his head. Shouts of "ALL you were doing was SOAKING IN THE TUB?!" followed by "WHAT kind of FREAK BUG goes SOAKING IN THE TUB? Not to mention names himself after a T-SHIRT?!" and finally, the deafening "And WHO said YOU could name yourself after MY T-shirt, ANYWAY?!" resounded through the house.

As the newly-dubbed Kismet peered out from under the fabric, he could only wince. "Something," he muttered, retreating back underneath the protection of the shirt, "tells me I'm gonna die here."


	7. add a handful of overactive imagination

Chapter 5

**Overactive Imagination**

* * *

"I'm home!" Zane called as he unlocked the door. It was more of a formality than anything else. Only his mother really cared, and she worked for most of the day. One glance into the dark house informed Zane that this ironic fact of life had held true once again. Laying his shoes by the doormat, Zane padded up the stairs in his socks. It only took one minute to change into more casual clothes, a baggy grey shirt and dark brown trousers, and then another to neatly fold his school uniform and lay it on a nearby chair. Remembering the ominously dark sky, he made sure to close all the windows. That, however, silenced his only companion: the rattle of the wind against the blinds.

To make up for the unnerving quiet, Zane switched on the small television in the living room. He left it on the current show, a bright and energetic cartoon. As he worked on the weekend's homework at the kitchen table, occasional snippets drifted over to where he was sitting, "Alright, Pikachu, Thunderbolt!" and "You can do it, Beautifly!" among them.

Seven o' clock came and went without much incident. Zane polished off the rest of his school assignments, then ran downstairs to empty the dryer. After another half-hour of miscellaneous chores had crept by, he made dinner, instant macaroni straight from the microwave. He tore open one packet of powdered cheese and sprinkled it over the first bowlful. The second bowl was left plain. Balancing a serving of macaroni in each hand, he walked upstairs, stopping in front of the closed door at the very end of the hall.

"Summer!" he called, seeing lines of light leaking from the edges of the door. "I have dinner!"

Light footsteps, softer than the storm's last raindrops plopping on a water-laden leaf, sounded on the other side. As the door eased open, a feminine voice began to speak. "Oh, excellent timing! I'd only just realized it was so late."

"Busy day?" Zane asked, walking into the room. A computer sat atop a desk table on his right, its screen displaying a generic screensaver. He set the plain bowl next to the mouse pad, then pulled up another chair.

"Macaroni?" Summer remarked, leaping agilely into the chair positioned in front of the computer. Her tiny button-black nose wriggled as she eyed the bowl. "You _finally_ remembered I don't like cheese," she grinned, large dark eyes twinkling. "Guess next time you have memory trouble, I'll just have to give you another scratch or two."

Zane smiled back as Summer dipped her petite face into the bowl, leaving only her broad, maroon-colored ears showing. Although Summer had evolved only a year or so ago, her new Delcatty form suited her completely. With golden fur, four delicately thin legs, and a tufted tail that swished in line with her current emotions, her looks glowed with every bit of sweetness that her "Cute Charm" characteristic suggested. Her sharp and sometimes ruthless personality, however, was a different story.

"What do you think of this, Summer?" Zane said, leaning forward. The Delcatty watched shrewdly as he replaced her empty bowl with a battered-looking black notebook.

"Surprisingly accurate," Summer commented as she flipped through the pages, briefly scanning the Pokémon drawings that covered each one. "Hmm...someone actually knows their anatomy. Who's the artist?"

"I don't know. I found it in a storm drain."

"How disgusting. Stop picking up other people's trash." Wrinkling her nose, Summer paused at the very last page of the sketchbook, which was ripped down the middle. Despite the revulsion she'd just voiced, the Delcatty couldn't help but peer at the blurred ink, her face bobbing so far down that it almost brushed the paper. "What do you think this one was of?" she asked, nudging the book towards Zane.

Frowning, the boy bent his head over the sketch. He could make out a dark wing, which had once been inked meticulously in by a fine-pointed pen, then shaded a deep, nearly-black shade of blue. Along the edge of the rip was the top of something...a head, perhaps...and a single, cruel-looking eye, outlined with streaks of gold. It seemed to swerve wildly about in its socket, before fixating on Zane himself.

There was a chilling wave of some unnamable, horribly powerful emotion, accompanied by a surge of abysmal darkness. Zane's heartbeat jolted sickeningly, then seemed to fade completely. "Zane!" came Summer's voice. There was a hasty flutter of paper, followed by a slap of something flat against the desk.

Blinking, Zane found himself back in his seat, the computer humming peacefully beside him. With her tail clamped over the sketchbook's cover, Summer was eying him warily.

"Sorry," Zane managed, some color returning to his ashen face. "Are you busy with the computer right now?"

Summer shook her head. "I'll do the dishes tonight," she said, picking up both bowls in her teeth, then bounding off her chair. Nodding absentmindedly, Zane headed to a site that he often visited.

Outside, the first drops of rain began to fall.

* * *

**kira** has joined the chat room.

**{deuce_halcyon} **hey, Kira, you didn't come today...you forgot that you promised me a pokémon battle, didn't you?

**[kira] **Oh...sorry, Halcyon. Can I play you tomorrow, 10 AM Central Time?

**{deuce_halcyon} **better not forget this time.

**[kira] **No worries. It'll be good preparation for the tournament.

**{GoodLuckChansey} **hiya peeps! kira forgot u again, huh dh? j/k ^_^ kira, so u R thinking about the online pkmn tournament! (evil grin) who r u picking for ur team?

**{mouse} **isn't it too early? i thought the journey tournament's in June and you only need 3 people, and maybe 1 alternate, per team.

**{GoodLuckChansey} **but u have to make it past the prelims first. all the good people will be gone soon + everybody wants to be on kira's team! coz u really only need to win 2 out of the 3 battles in a team tournament to move on to the next round & kira = 1 guaranteed win (glomps kira)

**[kira] **...um...we'll see. Have any of you heard about new Pokémon being revealed?

**{deuce_halcyon} **you're kidding, right? the official pokémon franchise's been dead for ages...online sites like are the only place that people even talk about pokémon anymore...

**[kira] **Hm. I found a really old picture. Well, half of one. But I don't recognize the Pokémon in it. All I can tell is that it has a black wing, and an eye rimmed with gold.

**{mouse} **you sure it's a real Pokemon? it probably's a fake or an original drawing

**[kira] **It's strange, but I've got a gut feeling about this.

**{GoodLuckChansey} **haha, U R weird! just like the time u said you u had a real live pkmn in ur house!

**[kira] **Yeah. I guess all I really have is an overactive imagination.


	8. a pinch of sensible apprehension

Chapter 6

**Sensibly Apprehensive**

* * *

Yawning noisily, Cricket let one arm hang over the bathtub. Her drenched hair was dripping on her shoulders, and the overlarge T-shirt she used as sleepwear had large, dark patches where it had gotten wet. Cricket herself wanted nothing better than to slip into bed and pull the covers high, high over her head. Instead, she was kneeling in the bathroom, trying to clean up a mess that she hadn't created.

Water poured from the low faucet in one effusive gush. It pooled over the rubber mat suctioned to the bottom of the tub, forming mud puddles from the dirt stains Kismet had left earlier. Cricket had done her best to dodge those stains as she was showering, but her brother had complained. Cricket had stubbornly maintained that he was only jealous because he wasn't as agile as her, an argument that her parents hadn't found wholly convincing.

Scrubbing the last of the mud off the mat, Cricket yawned again. Getting to her feet, only to find that one foot had fallen asleep, she turned off the faucet and let the sloshing water drain away. In the ensuing silence, she could hear the wind howling outside, accompanied by the pitter-patter of rain on the roof and the occasional rumble of thunder. The rain had started to fall that evening and had now escalated into a full-fledged storm.

Cricket could empathize; her frustration with the so-called "Kismet" had been building in a similar fashion.

"Stupid bug," she muttered under her breath. "He could've at least offered to help." But, _no_, Kismet was probably lounging around on Cricket's bed and filling his belly.

At dinner, Mrs. Lewis had caught Cricket trying to sneak some broccoli into the napkin on her lap. Cricket had been forced to eat her least favorite vegetable on the spot, cursing mentally all the while. Unable to steal anything from the table, Cricket had reluctantly resorted to letting Kismet loose on her personal candy stash. The oversized dragonfly had dove in with such gusto Cricket doubted there would be any left when she returned.

And there was the little issue of who was sleeping where. Kismet had produced a long, mournful speech, emphasizing how he was injured, amnesiac, and bone-tired from his "wearisome ordeals." By the time he'd finished elaborating on his piteous condition, he'd somehow made his eyes are large and pleading as a puppy's.

"You wouldn't make a poor, injured, innocent creature spend the entire night on a hard, cold, merciless floor, you kind, compassionate, generous..."

Cricket had given in with a snarled reply, if only to keep him from talking any longer. Now, as she wrung her hair over the sink and opened the bathroom door, she was feeling a little less than magnanimous towards her winged "houseguest." Injured and traumatized or not, Kismet was _annoying_. Cricket's notoriously short temper had reached the end of its fuse several times, and she was on the verge of plunging past the point of no return.

Stomping back to her room, Cricket was just about to yank the door open when she heard something rather unexpected. Over the constant drumming of the rain, it sounded like someone was singing faintly inside.

"...when daytime turns to night...and the moon shines bright..."

Snapping out of her initial surprise, Cricket shook her head, then pressed her ear against the door, listening incredulously.

"...when you're tucked in tight...and everything's...alright...ah, right..._sora o...ao geba_..."

"Kismet?" Cricket said, opening the door at last.

The dragonfly was nowhere in sight. A couple seconds of searching revealed the blanket-covered lump at the foot of her bed, which was shaking rather oddly and emitting a querulous hum. Slowly, the top of a pale green head peeked though a crevice-like fold in the sheets. "You called?"

Feeling a bit awkward, Cricket plopped herself down on the bed beside him.

"Ow...you're sitting on my tail."

Hastily changing her position, Cricket drew her knees under her chin, then wrapped her arms around her bent legs. Outside, she could still hear the thunder crashing recklessly about. "You're scared of storms, huh?" she said, staring at the lump-in-the-bed that was Kismet.

The dragonfly's reply was partially dampened by the blanket he'd burrowed deeper into, and Cricket had to strain to catch his voice. "Scared is such a strong word," Kismet mumbled. "I personally prefer 'sensibly apprehensive of.' "

"Since when are you sensible?" Cricket snapped.

The lump seemed to wilt on the spot. For several minutes, all that could be heard were the sounds of the storm raging outside the house. Finally, Cricket broke the silence.

"Look, I used to be scared...okay, '_sensibly apprehensive_' of storms, too," she said, untangling her limbs and leaning back against the bed. "I didn't like the thunder, the lightning, the rain...all of it scared me to death. But you know what?"

Slowly, the lump in the bed shifted place. "Don't believe I do," came Kismet's dry, if somewhat shaky, reply.

"The storm's out there, and we're not." Still staring at the ceiling, Cricket tucked her arms behind her head. "So as long as you keep humming that dumb song, we can just sit back and laugh."

"At me?"

"No, stupid," Cricket said, rolling her eyes. "We can laugh at the storm running itself sick outside, because _we're _nice and cozy in here."

There were several minutes of pensive silence. The lump rose and fell slightly a couple times. Cricket had all but given up on an answer, when it started wriggling towards the end of the bed. "That's not a very nice thing to do," Kismet remarked as he poked his face into the open. "In fact, it's downright mean."

Cricket laughed. "What else do you expect from me?" Kismet had stopped shaking, she noted out of the corner of her eye. In fact, he'd moved his entire head out from under the blanket.

"Besides, there's some things you can't laugh at," Kismet said sadly. "You know -stuff that you can't help but be...'sensibly apprehensive' of, no matter how hard you try." Lowering his eyes and letting his good antenna droop dejectedly, the dragonfly fell silent. "It's not looking too good for me, huh?" he said after letting the conversation lull for some time.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I don't even remember what I am or what the heck I'm doing here," Kismet continued unhappily. "Sometimes I feel like I've come on some sort of mission, something really important. And though I've nearly thought my brains out, I can't remember what it is. It's frustrating, that's what it is. Really, really...frustra...ting."

As she heard Kismet's voice crack on the last word, Cricket took her arms out from where they'd been cushioning her head. "I'm gonna turn off the lights, and you better go to sleep," she said, getting to her feet. "We're gonna figure out who you are tomorrow, not now."

"_We_? As in you and me?"

Cricket only snorted as she pressed the light switch. As she crawled into the front of her bed and closed her eyes, she heard a quiet, contended hum coming from the other end. It faded into snores soon afterwards, though whether they were Kismet's or Cricket's own she didn't care to remember.

* * *

**{kira}** Well, I think everyone else has left, and I should probably be going to bed now.

**{deuce_halcyon} **see you tomorrow, and don't you dare forget!

**{kira}** Halcyon, do you know where I could find a scanner if I didn't have one myself?

**{deuce_halcyon} **still thinking about that picture of yours, I see. your school might have one.

**{kira}** ...that's not a good place.

**{deuce_halcyon} **ah. your friendly local library, perhaps?

**{kira}** Thank you. Good luck at the match tomorrow.

**{deuce_halcyon} **good night.

**kira **has logged out.

**deuce_halcyon** has logged out.

**[leto_blackwings] **...

**[leto_blackwings] **...

**leto_blackwings **has logged out.

Last user has logged out.

* * *

Zane lay awake an hour or so after he should have fallen asleep, listening to the rain die away outside. In the basket lying by the foot of the bed, Summer was rocking gently back and forth, completely unperturbed. Wishing he could be as sound a sleeper, Zane rolled over and pressed his cheek against the pillow.

The groan of the garage door told him that his mother had returned at last. Releasing an unconscious sigh of relief, Zane let his eyelids fall into place. As he allowed himself to drift away at last, he hoped that she would notice the bowl of macaroni he'd set out on the table before he'd gone to bed.

No such luck. The figure crouched outside Zane's house watched as the kitchen light flickered on, then back off a short while later. Wiping runnels of rainwater from its face, it gave the building one last, long glance before retreating into the darkness.


End file.
